


Heliopause

by esteri_ivy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenerys Contemplates Legitimizing Jon, F/M, Headcanon, Jonerys Week 2019, Missing Moments, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteri_ivy/pseuds/esteri_ivy
Summary: A queen cannot marry a bastard, but Jon Snow is a king. / Jonerys Week - Day 4. Headcanon & Missing Moments.





	Heliopause

**Author's Note:**

> About time I publish one of these on time ;). Takes place somewhere between 7x07 and 8x01.

* * *

heliopause ( _noun_ ): The boundary between solar wind and interstellar wind, where the pressure of the two winds are in balance.

* * *

 

The first night of their voyage, he knocked on her chamber door.

She let him in.

* * *

 

Westeros bred problems like rabbits.

Since Daenerys had arrived on the sands of Dragonstone, it had been one cataclysm after another.

The capture of Yara Greyjoy and Ellaria Sand. The loss of Highgarden. 

Viserion.

And now she sailed north, toward death — toward a cold that seeped into bones and ground brave men to dust.

With Jon Snow.

_For_ Jon Snow, she allowed… but only in the privacy of her own mind.

She’d spent the entire morning in what passed for her makeshift solar, contemplating her voyage to the North while Tyrion imbibed beside her.  
She knew she was already pushing the highborn of Westeros when it came to the Dothraki — they wouldn't look kindly on a foreign queen with foreign armies _and_ a bastard for a husband.

But then — though she was loathe to admit it — they probably wouldn’t look kindly on her no matter what she did. She was long passed the days of believing Viserys when he told her the people of her homeland drank secret toasts to her health.

The people of Westeros drank secret toasts to Cersei Lannister’s death, and that was probably the best she could hope for until they saw her for who and what she was: a liberator.

They would hate the Dothraki until they felt protected by them. They would mistrust the Unsullied until they understood them. They might never be okay with a bastard king consort.

Daenerys stared out the window, toward the raging, churning sea.

“I am a queen,” she said quietly. Tyrion looked up from his wine glass.

_Silence._

He took a larger sip.

* * *

He laid on the bed, naked and starry-eyed — she crawled over his body and kissed him once more.

Her stomach felt like starbursts; the space between her lungs was a supernova.

“Dany,” she exhaled, “call me Dany.” And she felt, not just saw, his entire body still. The only part of all of Jon Snow that moved were his eyes, roving across her face.

He had that look in them again, the way he looked at her when she landed beyond the Wall, like he was certain that if he blinked, she would vanish.

After what seemed an eternity, he gave a jerky nod and his mouth finally moved. “Alright then… Dany,” he said.

Her mouth was on his again before he finished — she burned with the need to consume that sound, her name from his lips, before he closed his mouth and sealed it away.

“Say it again,” she said against his lips.

“Dany.”

He rolled her over and thrust inside her.

_Oh._

The warm light of a candle reflected against his skin, and she saw gold in his eyes — a bright, yellow gold. She could smell the ghost of a lemon tree.

* * *

Missandei was nearly done braiding her hair the next morning when she summoned the nerve to ask.

“How did you know,” Daenerys started, “that you were in love with Grey Worm?”

Missandei’s hands didn’t stop — they didn’t even pause. 

“Each time he left, even for a patrol, I couldn’t settle until he returned,” she said. “I looked for him first, always, in every room. I just knew it in my whole body, your grace,” she said. 

Her voice was soft. “It is the same way I felt when you freed me, like I had something to believe in.”

Daenerys’ vision blurred — her hand reached up of its own accord to grab Missandei’s.

When she at last felt able to speak again, her voice was thin and wiry. “So it’s when you’re certain, then?”

“Nothing is ever certain, my queen, but that does not matter when I am with him,” Missandei replied.

Daenerys wondered if she had ever been so sure of anything. A memory burst — flames and a screaming witch. The night her children were born.

Yes — when she walked into the pyre, she was certain.

* * *

They hadn’t been subtle. They hadn’t been quiet.

She wondered how long it would take for Tyrion to approach her.

* * *

Daenerys got her answer early that evening, when her hand knocked on the door to her chamber.

Tyrion looked resolute as he entered, but he took his time, crossing to the chairs she had in the corner, where Missandei tended to her each morning.

“May I speak freely, your grace?” he began.

“You are my hand,” she replied drily.

Tyrion looked uncomfortable; he ran a hand over his chest before he continued.

“Jon Snow,” he hesitated, “is a bastard.”

She knew that.

“A queen cannot wed a bastard.”

_She_ _knew that_.

She had named Tyrion her hand for many reasons, one of which was that he knew the intricacies of Westerosi politics. 

But the words stung. Tyrion’s advice hadn’t helped her at Casterly Rock or in Dorne. They’d lost Highgarden. 

And she could still hear Jon Snow’s voice ringing in her ear, over and over again, the day he arrived at Dragonstone.

_“As far as I can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father's name.”_

Her father’s name.

Jon Snow hadn’t bent the knee for propriety or parentage. He’d refused her again and again and again until she saved him, until she pledged herself to fight for his cause… until he felt she’d earned it.

And yet, Tyrion wasn’t entirely wrong. To many in Westeros, her claim _would_ rest on her father’s name. 

She couldn’t break the wheel unless she was queen, and she wouldn’t be queen if she had no supporters. Cersei’s reign of terror was enough to prove that.

Daenerys had worked toward the Iron Throne for years. When she wandered the Red Waste, as she freed the Unsullied and traveled to Yunkai, her dream of reclaiming it, of reclaiming her home, was all she had.

It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to feel uncertainty. 

She wanted to make the world a better place. 

A self-serving thought entered her mind — the world she wanted to build was one where a bastard could be king.

And fracturing the wheel didn’t have quite the same ring as breaking it.

She had weighed it in the makeshift solar — had weighed it when he knocked on her door, and even before that. When she climbed on Drogon and flew beyond the Wall to save him.

His presence in her heart was a threat, but the idea of abandoning Jon because of his parentage made her chafe. 

She’d left Daario without a second thought, but Jon Snow was not Daario Naharis. She suspected that leaving him would not be quite as easy.

Tyrion’s stare bored into the side of her face; he waited quietly for her response.

No, discarding Jon Snow was not appealing at all.

After what seemed a century, she opened her mouth.

“Send for Missandei,” is what came out of it. “I’d like to retire early tonight.” 

Her hand’s face tightened, but he stood to comply.

“And Tyrion,” she called, just as he reached the door, “Do mind your manners. Jon Snow is a king.”

* * *

That night, she went to him.

His cock was thick and swollen inside her, and she felt close to delirious. She was surely incoherent.

Jon flipped her to her back again in one smooth motion. He didn’t miss a single beat. 

He rutted against her again, and this time, she saw the universe against her eyelids. Her throat was hoarse as she shouted his name, and she could hear a strangled noise of his own escape from his lips as he filled her, her cunt squeezing him greedily.

Afterwards, they laid there. Jon looked dazed.

_When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east._

What she would give for her womb to quicken again.

And then Jon interrupted her thoughts — “I hope everything was to your satisfaction, your grace,” he said with a small smile.

It was rare to see his face lit up. She rather liked it.

“You’ve certainly pleased your queen,” she said.

Jon’s mouth lifted into a full smile, but he suddenly looked wistful — too tentative to match her mood.

“About time I did something to make your life easier,” he said quietly. “I think that might have been the first.”

He passed it off well, but the eyes were all wrong — she was struck by the sudden suspicion that Jon Snow might think she bedded him for sport.

_No_ , surely not. Was it even possible for him to see so little?

But too long had passed with no response from her, and his small smile had dropped away. Back in place was that familiar brooding look.

Apparently, he _could_.

“I wouldn’t say the first thing,” she teased. “You did bend the knee, after all. That saved me some time.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but it didn’t land. If anything, she could see Jon’s lips tighten, strained. 

“It’s just as well; I still don’t know what they were thinking naming a bastard king.”

The conversation hit too close to home.

She tried to interrupt, but he stopped her.

“You’ve lived in Essos most of your life, Daenerys,” he said. “I mean no offense, but you don’t understand how important a name is here. Missandei told me about her home, that they don’t even have marriage,” he continued. “It’s not like that in Westeros. It matters.”

“Your name didn’t matter,” she replied. “Your men chose you to be their king anyway.”

“Only because they thought Bran was dead,” Jon said, as he played with one of her curls. “If they’d known a trueborn son was still alive, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“We would,” she insisted.

Jon opened his mouth to argue, but she interrupted.

“I want to tell you a story about Essos,” she said softly. 

He fell quiet.

“When I was in the House of the Undying, I dreamed of my dead husband and son,” Daenerys said. “Do you know how easy it would have been to stay there, to be with Rhaego? To take back what Mirri Maz Duur stole from me?”

Even now, after everything, her heart seized when she thought of her child. She didn’t tell people this story for a reason. 

“There would have been nothing in the whole world more simple. But I heard my children’s cries — my living children — so I left. And I was given a prophecy: I was told I would have three men in my life: one to bed, one to dread and one to love.”

His attention was rapt, eyes on her face. 

He was so very, very handsome.

Daenerys rolled him onto his back, straddling him. His hips were corners and edges between her thighs.

Jon’s look of surprise was fleeting; it lasted just long enough for her to see it before she took him in her hand. 

A few stokes later, he was hardened, and she swiftly guided him into her. A strangled sound escaped his throat as she sank down on him. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes blacker than the night sky. 

“Which do you think you are, my lord?” she asked, and then there was nothing but the two of them and the groaning of the ship as the waves slapped against it.

Jon Snow’s heartbeat below her palm felt like coming home.

* * *

The next morning, Tyrion came to her, unprompted, as she broke her fast. He set a scroll on the table before her; the ink was still wet.

_I, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of My Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, decree you Jon Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, from this day until your last day._

His handwriting was neat and sharp. The only thing missing was her signature. Her head jerked up.

Tyrion’s face was wan, his smile strained. 

“A queen,” he repeated gently, “cannot marry a bastard. Think on it.”

And then he was gone.

* * *

In truth, she didn’t _want_ to think on it.

But the Seven Kingdoms had a harshly defined view of bastardy. Jon himself had insisted that very thing to her just the other evening as they lay in bed.

She glanced down at the scroll again.

_Jon Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark_.

It felt wrong — instinctively, emphatically — to call him Jon Stark. 

‘There was nothing wrong,’ she thought mulishly, ‘with Jon _Snow_.’

The wind didn’t argue with her, but she argued with herself. 

Every inch further from Dragonstone was a reminder that she was already risking her bid for the Seven Kingdoms. 

Every inch closer to White Harbor was a reminder that making him a Stark might mean she could keep him.

She thought of his scars. They were the scars of a brave man. A _worthy_ man _._

His hands cupping her face, gentle and warm.

Ultimately, it took her less than an hour to make a decision. 

Tyrion was up on deck when she found him and handed the scroll back to him, unsigned, torn nearly in two.

He looked down on it and then sharply back up at her. 

“Your grace?” he asked, brow raised.

“I thought I told you already, Lord Hand,” she replied with a raised brow, “Jon Snow is a king.”

* * *

That night, he slept with his arms curled around her as she traced the bones of his jaw.

All she could see when she looked at his face was a red door in Braavos.

Outside, the lights from White Harbor grew brighter on the horizon.

A pause before the shock.

**Author's Note:**

> <3 Only just finished it now, but this is an adapted version of the very first Jonerys fic I ever tried to write. (The original remains blessedly incomplete, but I salvaged some of the parts I liked for this XD.)


End file.
